"It Could probably be shown by facts and figures," wrote Mark Twain, "that there is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress." This issue's critics of that august but unruly body are no less outspoken. We asked two ranking members of the Washington scene what--and who--makes Congress run and why it so often runs down; their sobering disclosures, and prescriptions, merit your attention. In The House, U. S. Representative Richard Bolling describes how the lower Chamber, beset by an obsolete and corruptive committee system, fails to meet pressing legislative needs. Author of House Out of Order and Power in the House, skeptic Bolling ought to know; not only is he from Missouri, he's presently serving his 11th consecutive two-year term. Our companion article--The Senate--was written for us by the late Drew Pearson, the nationally syndicated columnist who unsparingly scrutinized politics and politicians for more than 40 years. His behind-the-scenes account (completed just before his death) reveals how the self-regarded "world's greatest deliberative body" works to protect the privileges of entrenched and vested interests--at the expense of the electorate.
Playboy, November, 1969, Vol. 16, No. 11. Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Co. Inc., Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the U. S., its possessions and Canada, $24 for three years, $18 for two years, $10 for one year. Elsewhere add $2 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 Park Ave., New York, New York 10022, MU 8-3030; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, MI 2-1000; Detroit, Robert A. Mc Kenzie, Manager, 2990 West Grand Boulevard, TR 5-7250; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard, OL 2-8790; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street, 434-2675; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
We are pleased to report that a splendid advance in the human condition is presently a-building in Potomac, Maryland. A group of dedicated real-estate developers--members of a profession often maligned for its dearth of humanitarian impulses--has come up with a definitive means of coping with the climate of violence that currently prevails from sea to polluted sea. Clearly concerned about the precipitous increase in robberies, muggings, rapes and murders, they are attacking the problem at its source by creating a visionary new social unit--the fortified suburb. According to their plans, the subdivision will "provide maximum security for residents during this crime-ridden era." As a spokesman put it: "We are going to give people safety, something they can't get anyplace else"--and they'll be able to get it at the modest price of $200,000 per home.
The Fifth Column and Four Stories of the Spanish Civil War (Scribner's), republished 30 years after their original appearance, illustrates the extent to which Ernest Hemingway viewed the world through the window of boyhood fantasy; his best work cleaned the surface until he could see the reality beyond, and his worst merely polished it until he could see nothing but his own reflection. The Fifth Column, a play Hemingway himself came to call "The Four Ninety-Five Column Marked Down From Five," is little more than a cloak-and-braggart account of Philip Rawlings' counterespionage adventures in wartime Madrid, characterized by postcoitus coyness ("you feel ... sort of like a snow storm if snow wasn't cold and didn't melt"), the excruciatingly simple talk of the natives ("take care yourself Mr. Philip," "I not joke I'm a serious") and a fake fade-out eloquence ("you do it so no one will ever be hungry ... go to her now, she needs you"). In the stories, on the other hand, a fine irony saves the heroics and the simplifications, instead of serving Papa's posturing, cut cleanly through to the tragic complexity of moral decision. The narrator of The Denunciation takes another man's blame for turning a fascist sympathizer over to the police, but the nobility of his sacrifice is undercut by his awareness of having half-intentionally prodded the reluctant squealer. In The Butterfly and the Tank, a bar brawl results in death through misunderstanding, revealing not only that all wars are civil wars but that victim and executioner are partners in the dance of death. A third story contrasts the waking nightmares of a tank commander and a pilot, the cowardly ways courageous men survive the Night Before Battle. And in Under the Ridge, "the nearest any man was to victory that day" was a Frenchman who, in a supreme moment of clarity, simply walked away from the battlefield--an irony redoubled as the narrator himself walks past the executed deserter's corpse while leaving the battlefield to take refuge in the safety of Madrid. The milieu of these stories is not the field of combat but the no man's land of moral ambiguity; their drama is not heroic action but moral conflict; their complex ironies cannot be resolved by political stance or emotional formula, least of all by the Papa Bull heroics of Philip Rawlings. It has been said that Hemingway's tragedy was not that he came before his time but that he lived past it. Yet if he could see with such "water-over-gravel" clarity the moral ambiguities in even the Spanish Civil War, one wonders what appalling insights he might have discovered in the waters of a more recent civil war.
Have you ever looked at your best friend's wife? And has she ever looked back? Such pithy questions ostensibly lie at the heart of Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice, described by its diabolical creators as "an indoor adventure" concerning two hip, affluent married couples who become so intimately involved with one another's sexual and emotional secrets that they end up four in a bed. Paul Mazursky and Larry Tucker, having warmed up with the featherweight I Love You, Alice B. Toklas, really catch fire as co-authors of this funny, abrasive, sometimes bitingly accurate satire of American sex and marriage. Tucker, doubling as producer, and Mazursky, scoring a lively directorial debut, record a slew of caustic observations on a generation of emancipated young marrieds who are so dedicated to dogged self-analysis that they seem incapable of responding spontaneously to any domestic crisis. Bob and Carol (Robert Culp and Natalie Wood) invite disaster by overreacting to a weekend of emotional catharsis and group therapy in a mountaintop Shangri-La patterned after the Esalen Institute at Big Sur. They come back understanding nothing but pouring it all out--to startled headwaiters, total strangers and their best friends, Ted and Alice. By the time Bob and Carol have shared the "beautiful" experience of confessing mutual infidelities--his with a blonde in San Francisco, hers with a handsome tennis instructor--Ted and Alice are in orbit, puffing pot, waging the battle of the sexes armed with flaccid jargon about "truth" and "insight." The case against couples who supply a textbook answer for everything is overstated but nonetheless hilarious, particularly when Ted (Barbra Streisand's estranged husband, Elliott Gould, a marvelously sheepish exponent of the new morality) and Alice (the former Mrs. Cary Grant, kittenish Dyan Cannon, coming into her own as a movie comedienne) start nailing down laughs in a memorable man-us.-wife bedroom encounter. "Do you want to do it just like that, with no feeling on my part?'' asks Alice. To which her bridling spouse swiftly responds, "Yeah." Impudent, iconoclastic and, by all odds, the most recklessly original American comedy so far this year, B & C & T & A lures its foursome onto moral quicksand only to leave them marooned on a bedrock of sad, solid truth.
Not that anyone has ever doubted it, but Barbra Streisand proves she's very much with it on the young-in-heart What About Today (Columbia; also available on stereo tape). There are items by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, Lennon and McCartney, Paul Simon, Buffy Sainte-Marie and Jim Webb, which should give you some idea of what Miss Streisand has in mind. Peter Matz, Don Costa and Michel Legrand have taken care of the arrangements and Barbra has taken care of the rest.
A few months ago, I was introduced to a very sexy and beautiful girl. Since then, we've gone to bed together numerous times and we both enjoy it very much. The problem is that although she's great in bed, she's really kind of a bore out of it. So I'm in a situation where in bed she turns me on and out of it she turns me off. But very. This makes for a rather shallow relationship and I don't know what to do about it.--B. R., Los Angeles, California.
In the 19 months since the murder of Martin Luther King, only one man has emerged as a likely heir to the slain leader's pre-eminent position in the civil rights movement: Jesse Louis Jackson, the 27-year-old economic director of King's Southern Christian Leadership Conference. The Reverend Jackson's first national exposure, in fact, came as a result of his closeness to Dr. King. He was talking to King on the porch of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis when the fatal shot was fired and cradled the dying man in his arms. The very next day, at a Chicago City Council meeting, Mayor Richard Daley read a eulogy that pledged a "commitment to the goals for which Dr. King stood." The Reverend Jackson had flown in from Memphis without sleep to attend the ceremony; he stood up in a sweater stained with Dr. King's blood and shouted to the assembled Chicago political establishment, "His blood is on the hands of you who would not have welcomed him here yesterday."
I met my aunt Augusta for the first time in more than half a century at my mother's funeral. My mother was approaching 86 when she died, and my aunt was some 11 or 12 years younger. I had retired from the bank two years before with an adequate pension and a silver handshake. There had been a take-over by the Westminster and my branch was considered redundant. Everyone thought me lucky, but I found it difficult to occupy my time. I have never married, I have always lived quietly and, apart from my interest in dahlias, I have no hobby. For those reasons, I found myself agreeably excited by my mother's funeral.
It is my conviction, a heresy in my trade, that the primary failures of political leadership at the Federal level are found in the United States Congress. Particularly, these failures are found in the House of Representatives, where I serve--the legislative area of civil rights excepted. The House has failed to organize itself in such a way as to exercise effectively and responsibly its share of the political leadership that the American people may fairly expect from their Federal Government. A drastic change in the House power structure and major reforms of the House as an institution are needed. The House as now constituted is ineffective. It is negative in its approach to national tasks and usually unresponsive except to parochial economic interests. Its creaky procedures are outmoded. Its organization camouflages anonymous centers of irresponsible power. It often passes legislation that is a travesty of what is really needed.
For 180 Years, the American people have struggled forward with their Congress. They struggled through the corrupt days of Daniel Webster--when the great orator was so drunk that he had to hold onto his desk to speak. They struggled through those bitter days when Representative Preston S. Brooks of South Carolina strode over to the Senate floor and so severely beat up Senator Charles. Sumner of Massachusetts, the abolitionist, that it took him three years to recover; the time when Senator Kenneth McKellar of Tennessee pulled a pocketknife on Senator Royal S. Copeland of New York; the period of the 1870s and 1880s, when lobbyist generosity made sure that almost every Senator had a bottle of whiskey in his desk; and we struggle now, as the sergeant at arms presides over an informal bar just off the Senate floor.
She was alive inside but dead outside, her face a black and dun net of wrinkles, tumors, cracks. She was bald and blind. The tremors that crossed Libra's face were only quiverings of corruption; underneath, in the black corridors, the halls beneath the skin, there were crepitations in darkness, ferments, chemical nightmares that had gone on for centuries. "Oh, the damned flatulent planet." Pugh murmured, as the dome shook and a boil burst a kilometer to the southwest, spraying silver pus across the sunset. The sun had been setting for the past two days.
Of all the diverse forms of partying, perhaps none is more refreshingly different and effortlessly pleasurable than that which has a coffeepot as its focal point. Spirits seem to become as liberated as the steam from an espresso machine, and any residues of stiff formality melt away like sugar in a cup of piping-hot Colombian.
John Blank, at the age of 33, was in many respects a model husband and father. He was also, as it happened, a confirmed, habitual, compulsive transvestite. He had started before he was 12 to dress up in his mother's or his sister's clothes whenever they were away from the house. By the age of puberty, he was hooked.
If one were Pressed to explain why skiing has become such a favored divertissement of young America, the answer would have to include feminine participation; were it not for the presence of all those beautifully filled stretch slacks, the Rockies' slopes would still be dotted mostly with bears and boulders, and the sole wintry sound emanating from New England's mountain fastnesses might well be the melancholy chriping of the hermit thrush.
Dirk drove to Helen's house to pick up their son. It was his weekend with Roy--once every other, which he and Helen, without lawyer advice or court decree, had congenially agreed to a year ago, when they separated and she filed for divorce--but she had different plans for today.
There Really is no Business like show business--at least as far as 19-year-old Claudia Jennings is concerned. Since she made her stage debut at the age of ten, in a production of The King and I by a repertory group in her native Milwaukee, Claudia has performed in about two dozen musical comedies--occasionally as an ingénue, but more often in character roles: "Ironically enough, I usually get to play little-girl parts. But that's just as well, since it forces me to really act." Currently ensconced in a bachelorette apartment on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago--where she arrived several seasons ago to model fashions--the well-rounded thespian has been performing lately under the auspices of Hull House Theater: "I heard their productions were firstrate, so I went to see for myself--and before I knew what was happening, I had joined the company." Having made up her mind that she'd rather earn a living by emoting than by posing ("Modeling gets more tedious all the time"), Claudia feels it's necessary for her, at this point in her career, to move to one coast or the other, for the Windy City's theatrical opportunities are limited. "Every actress has her particular skills and drawbacks," says Claudia. "It's a show-business axiom that if you really want to overcome your limitations, you go to New York, but if you're satisfied with your skills, then you're ready for Hollywood. The reasoning is that with a stage play, you get to work with the same material over a longer period of time than you do with a film, so you have more of a chance to improve." Although Claudia's celluloid experience has been held to one experimental short subject, she feels ready to try for stardom via the Hollywood route, and is awaiting the results of a recent screen test. Not that she's naïve enough to expect a sudden windfall: "Rarely does anyone establish herself in this profession with one dramatic stroke. You have to keep chipping away at the industry." Between shows, Claudia busies herself by counseling teenaged girls at a Chicago Y.W.C.A.: and when she wants distraction from social realities as well as from the theater, she picks up a bag of apples, throws in a book by Hemingway or Roth and hies herself to the lake shore: "You've got to sit down and relax sometimes, since the future will be unpredictable even if you work twenty-four hours a day." True enough-- but we feel secure in predicting a cinematically gratifying future for Claudia.
The young, attractive housewife was a bit surprised when her husband's best friend dropped by one afternoon and offered $500 to make love to her. Thinking that the extra money would come in handy, she led him into the bedroom and fulfilled her part of the bargain. Later that afternoon, her husband returned from work. "Did David stop by today?" he asked casually.
Daimler-Benz, the oldest manufactory of motorcars on this planet, at least, is a house of legendary puissance. With the advantage of founding by the two men most authorities credit with the actual invention of the automobile, Carl Benz and Gottlieb Daimler, the company has moved across the years since 1886 with an air of sure and unflagging competence, turning out, in good times and bad, an extraordinary variety of fast, well-made, long-lived automobiles. Convinced from the beginning that racing is valuable both as laboratory and as publicity producer, D-B put together an unparalleled string of successes in a straight line, from a one-two-three sweep of the French Grand Prix in 1914 to the stunning triumph of Stirling Moss and Denis Jenkinson in the 1955 Mille Miglia, when they ran a Mercedes-Benz 300SLR roadster over 1000 miles of Italian roads at an average speed of 97.8 mph, the permanent record for the course. The 300SLR was a blood relation of the gull-wing 300SL, a world sensation when it appeared in 1952 and a modern classic now.
Late on the night of March 18, 1965, a large, unwashed automobile pulled up outside the Francis Service Station, Romford Road, London, and a number of youths got out. Naturally suspicious (London being the iniquitous place it is), an attendant approached them; there was a short, heated exchange. And suddenly, without any warning, three of the men threw aside their coats and urinated against the wall. It was the worst thing that had happened to a garage since the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. If the newspapers were to be believed, that is. Drawing on that strength of moral outrage rarely encountered outside circulation departments, they fell on this monumental news item and shook it out into column lengths that dwarfed such trivia of the day as Leonov's first space walk and the first landings of the Marines in South Vietnam. For were these monstrous criminals not the Rolling Stones, bastard offspring of Dr. Savannah and the Wolf Maiden, threats to society beside whom Great Train Robbers, Boston Stranglers and the Waffen SS paled into insignificance? Well, yes, is the short answer. And, of course, no. They were the Stones, all right, who have bladders pretty much like everyone else, and whose jail record, at the time of going to press, happens to be nil. What the journalists neglected to point out, in their excess of crusading zeal, was that on any given night in England, after the pubs have closed, something like half the male population of the country pees against the nearest shady wall. Without being crucified for it. Stones, however, do not get off as lightly as people; and four months later, when Mick Jagger, Bill Woman and the late Brian Jones came up before the West Ham magistrates, they were found guilty of using insulting behavior and fined five pounds apiece. Which was nowhere near enough for the decent people with whom I am fortunate to share an island, the general feeling at that time being that a conspiracy to assault a British garage should have been punishable by hanging. One or two of the more enlightened barroom lawyers would have compromised with their consciences and accepted castration as the suitable sentence, but they were few and far between. Because the Rolling Stones, and Mick Jagger in particular, had by that time become the moral scapegoats for the English middle class; and, make no mistake, when it comes to moral standards, 99 percent of England is middle class, irrespective of what they shake out of their pay packets on a Friday night. The sole criterion is respectability; and respectability is compounded of conformity, ears visible beneath the hairline, small-knotted ties, sexual restraint (or, at least, discretion, which is how we spell hypocrisy) and clean fingernails. It didn't take Mick Jagger long to become the focus of bourgeois hatred and--what else?--guilt. Like all good sociohistorical phenomena, and I'm sure Richard Nixon would be the first to bear me out, he was the man for whom the times had been waiting. For 20 years, following the end of World War Two, England had been suffering, still is, a terrible religious agony: Believing with our whole souls in capitalism and commercial success, we have unfortunately found ourselves growing poorer and poorer. People kept coming and taking away our possessions; right now, we don't have much besides Hong Kong, and, as far as status goes, that's a little like having an Edsel in Palm Springs. Like all truly devout believers, Englishmen looked around for someone to blame for the fact that the island race was going to the dogs. Where have we gone wrong? they cried; and the figure who most totally summed up the decay of the old values, who most clearly represented threat, deviation, social destructiveness and a lack of those qualities that had made this country great (or, at any rate, rich) was M. Jagger. To the disgusting sensual rhythms of this tieless Pied Piper, the youth of England would frug themselves to perdition. They would tune in, they would turn on and (Are you listening, Queen Victoria? Do you hear me, George V?) they would drop out. Taking England with them.
Nothing much has happened in Maine since the brutal 1813 battle of war brigs off Monhegan Island, when the British Boxer was hammered into submission by the American Enterprise before being towed to the victor's corner. The state's last high-water mark come in 1851, when an old bluenoser named Neal Dow finagled a piece of legislation that forbade the distillation, sale and consumption of alcoholic beverages. This so-called Maine Law put Mr. Dow's stamping ground, for the first and last time, 69 years ahead of the other United States. As might be expected, when the entire country was put on Prohibition over a half century later, the best hard cider and applejack to be had anywhere came from good old long-dry Maine. Only the loving care and subtle expertise of generations of illegal distillers could have produced such potent, honeyed nectar.
In the ten Months since our last installment of The History of Sex in Cinema, the inundation of sex on screen has exceeded even our permissive predictions. Erotica in films from the major studios now rivals that seen in grind-house sexploitation movies. We are seeing kookie sex, kinky sex, leering sex and loving sex; sex spoofs, sex satires, sex dramas and sex melodramas. Pictures, in short, have become by sex possessed and, considering those still in production, the end is nowhere in sight.
This is the story of two young men who met by chance one fine summer day in a market place in the province of Chekiang during the reign of Chih-ho of the Mongol dynasty. First, they exchanged ming and hsing, first and last names; then, as they grew better acquainted, they made known their nicknames. One was called Before-midnight-scholar, because he did not study very late, and the other was known as After-midnight-burglar, because he did not begin work very early.
The next time you apply for a job, don't be surprised if the personnel director asks you to fill out the application in longhand--with no typing allowed. Your prospective employer may be among the growing number of businesses that use handwriting analysis as a hiring tool. My estimate is that at least 600 American companies are now employing the services of reputable graphologists, and the comparable figures from Europe are even more impressive: A 1966 survey of industries in the metropolitan area of Amsterdam determined that 80 out of 100 firms polled were using either staff or outside professional graphologists to help them select and promote company personnel.
"I Look For the innovator motivated strongly by ego, by the drive to achieve," says Larry Rader. He could be talking about himself; for, at the age of 32, Rader is a self-made millionaire and a senior vice-president of Shareholders Management Company, a mutual-fund empire worth some 1.5 billion dollars. A Brooklyn boy with cheek, Rader overcame an Amboy Dukes background, worked his way through Rensselaer--where he finished at the top of his class--and then went on to MIT's grad school with a Whitney Fellowship. Putting his chemical-engineering degree aside and plunging into the world of high finance, he quickly earned a prestigious post on the president's staff of Standard & Poor's. But Rader's training as a business analyst soon led him to a small brokerage house, where--while making his fortune--he became the first member of financier Fred Carr's "Dirty Dozen," a group of bright, youthful independent advisors to the flashy, growth-oriented Enterprise Fund. Rader's ability to ferret out promising stocks eventually resulted in his current position as portfolio manager of Shareholders' Fletcher Capital Fund, which last year raised a cool $177,000,000 from investors in a mere 12 days. The secret of his success? It's "the ability to empathize," according to Rader, who spends much of his time talking with corporate leaders around the country in a constant search for stocks that promise rapid growth. He tries to identify with the problems and the goals of company managers, but he's always on the lookout for what he terms "the moment of truth": When an administrator's answer to a key question contradicts something previously discussed or--equally suspicious--when the person shows a flicker of hesitation, "that's usually a sign that he's invented a fact or figure on the spot." It's this kind of perception, tied to a conviction that the vitality of a company's management is of more long-term importance than its current balance sheet, that gives Larry Rader considerable growth potential of his own.
When Conservationists fight against the poisoning and impending ruin of our environment, their usual weapons are aesthetic argumentation and Congressional lobbying. But 33-year-old lawyer Vic Yannacone prefers a more frontal assault: "Sue the bastards!" he says; and through the nonprofit Environmental Defense Fund--a militant conservation group he helped create in 1967--he has been doing just that. Instead of seeking personal damages, he sues the offending organization on behalf of the people, contending that Americans have a constitutional right to the full use and enjoyment of a pure environment--and that polluters are acting against the public interest. His first such case was against the Suffolk County Mosquito Control Commission for dumping DDT into a pond near his home in Patchogue, New York. Even after marshaling expert testimony deploring the use of DDT as a pesticide, he didn't get a clear-cut win--but the commission was enjoined not to use DDT for two years. Yannacone next turned in a similar de facto victory against DDT in Michigan, and a Wisconsin court is currently considering 8000 pages of testimony amassed for yet another of his DDT cases. More recently, he saved a unique Colorado fossil bed from being bulldozed into a subdivision: "The Florissant fossil bed is the most famous in the hemisphere. To build 30-year A-frame houses on a 34,000,000-year-old geologic formation is equivalent to wrapping fish with the Dead Sea Scrolls." Yannacone puts in "what most lawyers would consider a normal work week" on conservation litigation alone; and though it's straining his career as a general trial lawyer, he finds the needs of E. D. F. more compelling. Coming up are a suit against a Montana paper mill for air pollution and a possible fight against a proposed Florida canal that would destroy a delicate ecological balance. The battles are long and frequently frustrating, but Yannacone deeply believes that the business of saving us from ourselves is worth the effort.
"The Impossible Dream," speed merchant Anthony Granatelli termed it in his early-1969 autobiography, They Call Me Mister 500. He was writing about a win for one of his cars in the Memorial Day classic at Indianapolis. His pessimism was understandable: Since his 1946 Brickyard debut, when he and his brother Joe drove (rather than transported) their entry to the track from Chicago, Granatelli had brought a host of radically innovative machines to Gasoline Alley--only to see them break down, crash or be disqualified. Then last May 30, hard-driving Mario Andretti shattered his own Indy jinx, as well as Andy's, by winning the event in one of Granatelli's more orthodox cars. Heretofore, at the first demonstration of their potential, Andy's experiments with air brakes, wide tires, four-wheel drive and the sensational side-mounted turbine engines were regulated out of competition by the track's ruling body, the United States Auto Club. Though finally triumphant, Andy still admits a lingering disaffection for the U. S. A. C.'s board of governors. "They've hurt me," he says. "But they've hurt themselves more; they've hurt progress." Granatelli, 46, began his lifelong romance with automobiles by starting stalled cars on wintry Chicago mornings. At 23, he was advising Henry Ford's top engineers. Later, he did the same for Chrysler and Studebaker. The latter association eventually resulted in the super-charged Avanti, one of the many volatile vehicles Granatelli himself drove to more than 400 speed records by 1963. Andy's fervent proselytizing is chiefly responsible for the current national mania for hot-rodding, drag and stock-car racing--once crazes confined to California. A decade ago, after having made over $14,000,000 selling hot-rod equipment, he marketed an engine lubricant and fuel supplement called STP (Scientifically Treated Petroleum). Andy's additive--sloganized as "The Racer's Edge"--now grosses over $40,000,000 annually. For "Mister 500," this is almost as gratifying as Indy's checkered flag.